Monday, December 31, 2012

Image posted with the permission of the artist. Learn more about Alexandra Ackerman and her artwork on her Etsy store here.

An image of young family: Mother, Father, First Born Babe. A tree grows beside them marking the slow passage of time. A lion stands guard protecting that which is precious and fragile. This is an image of hope, of possibilities. A new life. A new year. The hope that we can do better this time.

And so this is Christmas and what have we done,Another year over, a new one just begun.

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Image posted with the permission of the artist. More of Julia Hebner's bright and lively work can be viewed and purchased on her Etsy store here.

"It's winter," she says, "because the trees are naked." The cool, blue shadows of those naked tree branches lay flat across the side of a house like vines. I wonder if someone is looking at our car pass by, peering out from a darkened window. I wonder if it is warm in there.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Lean back
Raise head
Pull down and
Strike - THUMP!
A steady rhythm
Each swing of the hammer
One fluid movement
The tools
Extensions of the bodies
The bodies
A collective machine
Weight and force spiral in, while
A trail of wind ripples out
It is like music, or
A blooming flower
The way work should be

Saturday, December 22, 2012

It's Christmas Eve, and the boy has been sent to grab the goose for tomorrow's dinner. Not all that much larger or heavier than his prey, the boy wrestles to keep a grip on the distressed bird, while the slanted, purple light of these dwarfed days lends even more drama to their struggle. Despite his small stature, the boy is sturdy and determined. Indeed, Sir Fowl, I don't care how much of a cumbersome and noisy load you are. Regardless of all your wiggles and honks of protest, you're goose is cooked!

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

I am reminded of science fiction stories with portals which lead to another time and place. Except that in the stories it is always somewhere really exciting, but here it is mundane. Mundane, but at least with a quiet charm. In and out, in and out, and where are we really, especially when we're only halfway through.Tied to this anchor this overgrown shrub, heads low in acceptance of a fate where we drift on an island of mist. Where we blend in and revolve ever so slowly around a fading altar.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Image posted with the permission of the artist. More of Brenda Everett's work can be viewed and purchased on her Etsy Store.

Clumsy notes clamor, through the walls, down the hall, spilling out the screen door into the back yard. The yard where the hard running steps and laughter of children are heard. One of the neighbors is charging up their staircase in time with the notes of the A flat major scale I play over and over again to prepare for Ballade No. 3. Wrong notes, and even right notes played wrong, beat against my eardrums. It takes so long to get any good. Notes, notes, like strokes of paint, some delicate like raindrops, other heavy like gobs of mud. Notes, notes, redundant like stripes and spots on our shirts. Other times merely repetitive, yet with numerous variations, like books of different colors and widths on the shelf, or windows of various sizes and shapes, yet all clear and letting in the light. Over and over I run around this same block, finding my stride, falling full into the moment and losing my sense of time. After a while, a long, long while, all this effort will pay off.